The Memory of Lost Senses Read Online Free PDF

blue-cushioned window seat in the square bay of the parlor, she was immersed in her new novel, Zuleika Dobson , which had arrived in the post the previous day. The summer curtains were drawn halfway across the open window, shading the room, Cecily and the book from the glare of the afternoon sun. And but for the distant sound of Rosetta’s singing, all was quiet.
    When the doorbell rang Cecily jumped, dropping the book to the floor. It seemed unnecessarily loud and whoever it was, they were of determined character, she thought, pushing the book beneath the cushioned seat.
    “I’ll get it, Rosetta,” she said to the maid in the hallway.
    She turned the brass handle, pulled opened the door. “Annie—”
    “There’s a cricket match on the green this afternoon and he’s in it, he’s bowling, Walter just told me,” Annie said rapidly, clutching the handlebar of her bicycle. “I thought I should come . . . come and tell you.”
    “I’ll get my hat.”
    The girls cycled slowly down the track, through the shallow ford and up the hill on the other side, moving in and out of the shadows of overhanging hedgerow and trees. At the newly gated entrance to Mount View, where the road widened and the sky suddenly seemed bigger than ever, they passed the rector, Mr. Fox, wobbling back toward the village on his bicycle, and Stephen Burrows, emerging from a field with a reap hook in his hand. They parked their bicycles under the trees by the steps down to the village hall and walked up the pathway toward the green. The match was already under way. Languorous halfhearted shouts and desultory clapping drifted through the air. Barefooted children zigzagged about with hoops and people stood in huddles. A group of young men raised their boaters, smiled and nodded to the girls as they passed. “Too hot for cricket, eh?” one of them said, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. “Hottest day so far, I reckon.”
    In the middle of the green the yellowing grass turned to molten silver, the players blurring into the pool of liquefied metal: like a mirage, Cecily thought. Only a few wore white flannels; the majority were in their usual working clothes, with shirtsleeves rolled back and braces exposed. And beyond them, at the other side of the field, clear and solid, and dazzlingly white, stood Bramley’s new pavilion.
    “Oh cripes,” said Annie, “look who’s here . . .”
    Sonia Brownlow stood out that day, but for none of the reasons she would perhaps have wished to. In a broad-brimmed, top-heavy hat, tight-fitting frilled blouse, and skirt, tightened further by a broad belt, she resembled a great white galleon about to set sail. Sonia lived with her parents, brothers and sister at Mount View, the biggest and newest house in the village, situated opposite the village green. Mr. Brownlow had made his money in shipping, enough for his family to live in deep-piled comfort, with every modern convenience and luxury and a dazzling array of new, gilt-edged furnishings. Sonia had been born in Rangoon and, as she liked to remind people, had traveled the world. And to Cecily and Annie she had made some bold claims: she had swum with giant turtles in the Pacific, shot wild boar in Africa, and learned to ski at St Moritz. And she could, she had told them, if she wanted—though not to them—speak half a dozen languages.
    When Sonia saw the girls, she flapped a hand about under her fringed parasol, beckoning them over to where she and a few others stood. Cecily glanced at the figures in the center of the field. She could see Walter, Annie’s brother, standing in front of the wickets, bat in hand, and she recognized a number of other familiar figures, but she could not see him . And the possibility of his absence, of his not being there, gave her a sudden pang, a quick and sharp sensation of loss.
    Sonia was laughing, wobbling her head about in that affected way Cecily loathed. As the girls drew nearer she turned to them, wide-eyed, and